I'm a Veteran. Seen it all. There's only one thing worth remembering: Auror has to make sacrifices. Sometimes that means dying…sometimes it means letting others. Neither's easy. HBP, Moody and Tonks. Every Auror has a weakness…what's yours?

AN: If you drudged through the treacherous (and possibly lecherous) vicinity of 'Harry Potter fanfiction with 11 reviews or less' in order to find this fic, you should really be reading Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality by Less Wrong instead. Really.

Cornelius Fudge was not the wisest man to have occupied the post of Prime Minster of the Ministry of Magic, no. And there had been a time-a very long time now-that it would be not only quite possible but quite correct to label him fool. But in the past several weeks he had grown if not wise, then wiser. After the return of You –Know-Who not weeks before, and the innocence and death of Sirius Black on Ministry property itself, he'd seen the warning signs. This regime—his regime—was on the brink of dying, and he swore he'd do anything to keep this position he so loved.

He'd even tried Dumbledore—Dumbledore! Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the man who, for nearly three years now, he'd tried so desperately hard to undermine, thwart, spy upon, control and depose. But he knew the truth now, or was at least closer to a bewildered resignation: some men possess power inherently while others struggle for the same all their lives. Dumbledore had charisma, undeniable charisma, and though just months ago he'd declared the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry a fugitive for sedition, for the past several days he'd tried to get the old man's attention, and even aid.

Dumbledore was venerable, old, and wise—and now that the truth about You-Know-Who's return on the eve of the Tri-Wizard Tournament's finale had been fully established in the public eye, the Professor—like Potter—was considered a lone bastion of truth.

If only he could get audience with the old man. If only they could convince Potter. Yes, Harry Potter. In perhaps the most profound moment of Fudge's career (and even life), he'd realized what-rather, who-he needed, and was willing to do whatever it took to get The Boy Who Lived on his side. Auror training. Order of Merlin. Even an official apology, if need be. And it would be in earnest…

…but it was, as Dumbledore's ominous silence suggested, simply too late. You Know Who's return had been the fatal blow, and nothing and everything he did now could hope to staunch its flow. The old man's silence, and Fudge's vain efforts to speak with him, were simply the long bleeding out.

The fall of the Brockdale Bridge, however, would be his tenure's final, gasping breath.

"PEREGRINE, this is EAGLE, what is your position?"

Radio static. The chopper team tried again. "PEREGRINE, do you copy?"

But the radio lay splintered and useless, dropped from the ashen fingers of Elanor Palfrey in favor of her pistol. Mad-Eye Moody wasn't the only veteran in London that morning: Iraq had not been kind to her, and words wouldn't save them now. These enemies were beyond her skill—beyond her imagination—but instinct, even that of the Muggle variety, told every soldier battle was better met with one's sidearm, whether wood or steel, firmly clasped in the heel of one's palm.

…and your enemies, no matter how invisible or impossible, were better in front of you than behind. She wheeled, crouching, running backwards behind her team to provide fire cover should it prove necessary.

But her efforts were counter-productive. Even clutching the principal, Tyler O'Connell slowed down to match her pace. They weren't her majesty's army, they were her sworn protectors…and now wasn't the time for never leave a man behind. It was the principal before aught else.

"O'Connell!" AIC barked, "get MERMAID to safety!"

"Palfrey-"

"That's an order, goddamnit! Run!" Before he could either reply or comply, the bridge lurched. Once, twice, three times it shuddered, then let out a creaking groan like a dying animal. MERMAID wailed in terror as Tyler fell, Ali and Benedicio let out a collective shout and came rushing back to help-

Too late.

There was a split-second of silence, then a sonic boom. The shock-wave rippled through the pavement and sent pedestrians and vehicles sailing into the ominous fog into the waters below. Elanor staggered to her knees, civilians screamed, and cars rolled backwards as that eerie thrum! reached it's deadly climax and the pavementcobblestonerailings bent like an abstract painting, coiling and spiraling around her like a terrible, stony serpent.

Too old. I'm too damn old. Thought I outsmarted Death, living this long. But that bastard just wanted to see this day: the day old Mad-Eye knew, but couldn't do anything. The day old Mad-Eye did nothing but watch.

Not yet. Not today. Joke ain't over. I got one more in me. You're going to have to wait, Death. I ain't that old, not yet…

Can't breathe, can't stop. Move, old man, move-!

It was here. She'd never realized it before but now, exposed, naked in the Muggle world with no ambient charms or remnants of spells long cast, Magic had a presence all of its own. It was here. Close. Urgent and unrelenting. And that only meant one thing: if a spell or charm was strong enough that even clumsy Nymphadora Tonks could sense it, it was a magic of catastrophic proportions.

Weasley's report had mentioned Muggle figureheads as potential targets. She had no idea that at this exact moment Kingsley Shacklebolt was presenting his findings that the Muggle mass transit system might also a target of You-Know-Who's terror. But Shacklebolt's suspicions, like most of the provisos made by the Fudge administration in the wake of Sirius' death, had simply come too late to stop the inevitable unfolding of events.

She didn't see it for the fog, but the explosion and resultant force wave of ominous magic coming from the rolling grey cloud bank that obscured the river sent a death-knell to her heart. "Mad-Eye, the bridge!" Tonks shrieked. And in mid-step, before she could even blink, the running man hobbling next to her laid a firm grip on her arm-

-she was jerked to the side, there was a loud CRACK-!

-and suddenly they were at the water front to watch first-hand the horror of Voldemort's newest wave of terror.

In that moment, staring out at the Brockdale Bridge and the grey waters below, none of the Muggles on the crowded street noticed the woman's sweeping blonde hair shoot back into her skull and turn a brilliant shade of pinkish-purple.

…Then again, given the extenuating circumstances, none noticed her and the grizzled man appear out of thin air, either.